


Pure Insanity

by craple



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Schizophrenia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Arya dreams, but not of wolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pure Insanity

Sometimes, Arya dreams, but not of wolves.

Most of her nights are plagued with Lannister men screaming bloody-murder into the quiet night; the taste of fresh squishy blood on the tip of her tongue, wrinkled skin and how they rip underneath the sharp dirt-caked nails of her paws. The dreams are realistic to say the least. Even the decomposing smell of humans’ flesh lingers in the air long after she wakes.

Some nights, she dreams of her father’s Ice through the rotten heart of Jaime Lannister’s, a blunt dagger piercing the smooth flawless skin of the Bitch Queen, carving the Northerners’ words on her flat stomach to see if she truly breeds golden monsters of abomination like people said. She dreams of the Baelor Sept crumbling on top of the stupid sadistic monster of a King Joffrey, scorching flames licking every single inch of Red Keep, the faces of the names in her nightly prayer on a long stick of silver. It is a sweet dream, almost.

Once in a while, Arya dreams of Winterfell. Old Nan telling stupid stories, Bran climbing the steep stones of their castle, Jon and Robb and Theon playing heroes and dragons on the yard by the armory, Rickon learning how to pull the perfect pranks in the kitchen along with her. Sansa is there too, a few times, but her sister is always crying, always complaining about something that does not go well with what she has expected before, and although it is annoying, Arya cannot help but miss her most, after Jon and her father and Nymeria.

There is another dream too. A completely, utterly different sort of dream; a dream that is neither the sweet taste of revenge, the stinking smell of wet dog, or the warm feeling home, no. This dream is not her own, belongs to a man she once knew. She dreams of a man clad in black and white robe, standing in the middle of a crimson rain as storm rages above his hooded-covered head. He has no face, this man. But she remembers him as young and handsome, with strange red hair and white stripes, a charming smile and silk-velvet voice that sends desire coursing through her core.

Every single time she wakes panting and sweaty; her stomach churns to jelly as blazing heat makes its way between her legs.

It is her sweetest dream and yet her worst nightmare all at once.


End file.
